Planning
by Soulreciever
Summary: Sherlock has been putting himself directly into danger for many long years and never before has Mycroft shown such active concern.  Guthrie-verse: pre 'hunting' Post 'smother'  AU, OC, Slash,angst, STUDY  spoilers
1. Chapter 1

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T: In which I bring you yet more Guthrie-verse fun times! Spoilers for 'STUDY' right up to 'TGG', much slash, a great swath of theories/padding and some angst. I own only this modern verse take on Paterson G, along with the back story that he brings with him!

O

He's been sat at this gate for about ten minutes now, listening as other flights are announced and running through the little circle of checks in order to keep his mind at least half way occupied.

Passport tucked in the front pocket of his bag; boarding pass acting as a bookmark so that he can show both it and his photo in one quick, easy, movement: wallet there at his hip, weighing down his jacket pocket; mobile phone a slightly lighter presence in the pocket beneath.

Oh he knows he'll manage to somehow mislay something the very second that they begin boarding, still…

Ah, jaws theme playing happily at his hip…Mycroft's office line which means either his husband's pneumonia has miraculously cleared since their last conversation an hour ago or he's gotten bored…the latter of course is more likely and, sighing, he answers the call and states,

"Tell me you're at least still taking your medicine." A worryingly bubbly bout of laughter then a response of,

"Yes, yes. I begin to believe that you think me useless without you."

"Naturally," a beat then, "How can I help?"

"Would you say army doctors are trustworthy?"

Delirium, it has to be and sighing he simply responds with, "Go home, Mycroft," before hanging up and, after a moment's thought, turns his phone off in the hopes of perhaps encouraging the other to take him up on the suggestion.

It's of little surprise to find his husband waiting for him at the gate, his face all disconnected neutrality and his mid set form balanced happily on what looks to be an umbrella.

He's half way towards him, mind full of a lecture on the importance of keeping ones self healthy when he catches a sight of the ring.

It's nothing more than a plain band of silver, shining happily away at the base of his husband's right ring finger and yet the context behind it makes it oh so much more.

He'd gifted it to the other six months into their relationship on a whim and had instantly been reminded that, sweet though such a gesture was, it would never have a place in their relationship.

Had been reminded that they would have to hide their affection always in smoke and shadows or risk their enemies using it against them.

He'd swallowed back his anger, brushed the whole thing off as a momentary lapse and thought it a closed discussion until, one late winter morning, he'd been whisked, spontaneously, to Scotland.

A glorious trip full of long, rolling, skylines and a well planed marriage ceremony that'd concluded with a firm kiss and an enquiry of,

"What happened to this being something we were never doing?"

Mycroft had smiled, looped their hands together so that he could feel the chill of the ring against his hand and responded,

"Apparently even I can be wrong sometimes."

He'd removed it once they'd returned to England, stored it in a beautiful little box that he kept in his office and fallen into the habit of wearing it whenever they were apart for significant periods of time.

Thus it was no longer simply a ring, but a subtle reminder of how much he was missed and how very far his life had travelled in the last seventeen years.

Letting out a huff of frustration, he closes the distance between them and states,

"I've missed you too," before adding, "though don't think that means I'm forgiving you for endangering your health."

"It was worth a try at least," Mycroft remarks before adding, "My previous enquiry was not made out of delirium, though I see why you might've believe otherwise without context."

"Right and is this 'context' also why you're suddenly channelling a bad stereotype?" He enquires as he gestures, vaguely, toward the umbrella.

A warm smile that shifts, lightening fast, into something all together more…menacing…and then Mycroft states,

"There was an incident."

"Ok and you didn't delegate this 'incident' to someone else because?"

"Trust issues."

Ah so something genuinely important, at least in Mycroft's eyes, still,

"You still could have waited until I got back, two days really isn't very much in the scheme of things and whatever this 'incident' is it's not truly pressing otherwise they would've called the Prime Minister back early."

A faint noise of assent then,

"I fear I somewhat caved to temptation, still I saved a little something for you."

"Of course you did," He sighs, runs his hands through his hair and then enquires, "Can I least get a shower in?"

"Mm, in fact there may even be time for tea."

X

Upon returning from his shower he finds a steaming mug of gloriously scented Red bush and the welcome sight of his husband relaxing on the sofa.

"You're actually listening to me."

"Indeed," he responds before gesturing towards an MP3 player that has appeared on the coffee table. "You're assignment for the evening."

There is no shock of chill as is usual when he settles into the space at his husband's side, still at least he's no longer pumping out heat as though he's a radiator and there's the vaguest hint of colour there at his cheeks which...

"As much as I appreciate being the object of your undivided attention, Paterson, I am somewhat eager for your opinion on the matter."

"I could use you as evidence for mind reading abilities, I seriously could." He mumbles as he stretches first to secure his tea and then the player's thin black headphones.

Hitting the play button brings forth the living sounds of a restaurant and, for the very first time, he understands why some members of his previous profession have fallen so very in love with this method of information gathering.

Because there's something basely amazing about being able to hear anything you want to hear without fear of being spotted...of knowing things that you know you should not.

The sound of voices, not yet close enough to the bug that he can make out the shape of the words and yet close enough that he can recognise one of them beyond all doubt.

Sherlock.

He has only to lean the slightest bit forward for Mycroft to catch his wrist and force him to look at his face...at the shear weight of concern clear in his eyes.

Sherlock has been putting himself directly into danger for many long years and never before has Mycroft shown such active concern.

Unspoken is the understanding that this is because Mycroft sees, as well as he, that it's all in aid of proving Sherrinford wrong... Of somehow purging Sherlock the guilt of the other's murder.

So then why now?

Then the voices clarify, likely as either they drift closer to the bug or it drifts closer to them, and he's able to hear Sherlock remark,

"You should eat, we may be here a while."

"What about you?" A strangers voice which is, in itself, odd and then Sherlock's actively offering explanation...offering shape and definition to some of his more eccentric personality traits...

"Jesus." It rolls out of him without actually making contact with his head, a breathy expulsion of the utter shell shock he's feeling right now.

In his ear the conversation is carrying on but he's no longer paying it the slightest bit of attention.

He knows Sherlock, thinks of him as friend...as brother...knows the scars on his psyche even if they've never actively discussed them beyond their first fateful meeting.

It means he knows how hard it is to get Sherlock to trust you, knows that him simply explaining away whole chunks of his broken psyche is something that doesn't happen.

Ever.

In his ear the stranger is asking about 'nemesis's' and he knows that Mycroft's talked to him, knows that he's also registered how significant the development is and yet...

On it's own it's merely an abnormality, a puzzle to pick at when there's chance and certainly not something Mycroft would put this much worry into.

So,

"What aren't you telling me?"

"There is a force out there, a powerful, dangerous force that's behind every seemingly petty crime, every carefully crafted hit. At the very front of this force is one single man, a man clever enough to profit in his machinations without ever truly incriminating himself...a man with a great deal to fear from one such as Sherlock."

"You think they're one and the same, that criminal mastermind and the guy on this?"

"Watson, Dr Watson, and it's certainly plausible…there's too much of him that sits so very well with my brother, as though it's been crafted as such and the...incident...with Sherrinford has already proven how vulnerable Sherlock is to that particular form if mask."

"But if he's genuinely caught and you're right..."

"Then there is no way to stop him from getting hurt, however, if you talked to him...placed the seed of doubt in his head…"

"No." It's blunt, a little forcefully so, though Mycroft seems to have expected it for he simply folds himself into a somewhat defensive posture before stating,

"Then you can consider learning all there is to learn of Dr Watson your one and only assignment."

O

T: Tune in next week as Guthrie does research, gets taken out for coffee and deals with the aftermath of the explosion.


	2. Chapter 2

2. Research.

T: Warnings/disclaimer as in previous chapter, oh and everything in **bold** is a text message.

X

Solider...promoted twice...demoted once...key witness in a controversial trial yet never called...WIA...Mmm...Skilled physician...crack shot...stubborn to a fault...

"Drinks his tea with skimmed milk and then adds four and a half teaspoons of sugar to compensate for the bitterness. I have attempted to point out that it would simply be healthier for him to return to full fat milk but somehow it 'went through one ear and out of the other'."

He's in his office, which means there's a small team of highly trained yet entirely inconspicuous security staff, not to mention three chatty, cheery, secretaries, designed to insure he knows exactly when to expect visitors.

Yet still Sherlock's managed to sneak in on him and, what's worse, managed to make him feel as the one at fault.

Not that he's going to let him see that, oh no, he's just going to give him his best go at the patented 'your mere existence bores me' expression that is Mycroft's particular speciality and simply wait for the younger man's impatience to get the better of him,

"You know that I do not believe in co-incidence."

"Yes and it's why I'm stuck here covering old ground."

A softening just there about his eyes and then Sherlock's folding himself into his spare chair,

"A few days ago Seb…sorry… Sebastian Wilkes, he's the posh chap you wanted to strangle back during my stint at university...pulled me in on a little case. For one as cleaver as this 'Moriaty' it would have been child's play to see the state of matters between us, to know that alienating Seb would be the ideal way to get me inside. However, when I introduced John as my friend he corrected me."

It's very little in the greater scheme of things and yet the same could be said for the basis of Mycroft's own misgivings.

It's also unprompted, which means it's also an offer if gratitude.

So he sidesteps the temptation to prod further at this particular aspect of the matter and instead casually enquires,

"So, how someone takes their tea, isn't that the sort of thing you'd normally push right back out of your head?"

Sherlock freezes, his whole body suddenly a tense coil of...something…and the skin high on his cheeks staining just barely.

It has been a long time since Sherlock has looked this young, since his face has slipped enough of it's mask to expose the scarred little boy buried beneath the apathy, the fiction of social ignorance, and to see it now sets a fear in his heart that's intensified as he states,

"It's because it's John," voice a small vulnerable thing that has him scrabbling about for some form of comfort and, because it's Sherlock he's dealing with, he only needs to get as far as that intention to have the younger man smiling his odd, twisted, smile.

"Indeed and, as always, it's welcome. Unfortunately there is little even your boundless talents can do to help, Paterson...little even I can do..."

There is frustration there in his voice now and, smiling despite himself, he states, "You're falling for him,"

"No, that would be irrational…illogical...he deserves more than I would be able to offer...deserves a happy, intelligent, little wife who could make him a home...a life..." He reels the whole thing off as little more than observation and he knows that means Sherlock's digging his heals in…

…which means there will be no talking about this particular subject again until the younger man deems it necessary.

There's no shifting a Holmes once they've made their mind up, after all.

So he waves a dismissive hand and states, "That's that then," before adding, "It stands whatever, Sherlock."

There's no more need to put a shape about that 'it' than there is anything else when one is talking to Sherlock and the other nods, firmly, before stating, "I'll keep it in mind," as he all but sweeps from the room.

He's counting under his breath the minute it clicks closed, reaches 'five' before he realises he's doing it and 'ten' before Mycroft wonders in, a perfect picture of distracted disinterest.

"I'm not buying it." Sharp, because it's all a little too much for his temper right now and instantly his husband's face is an entirely unreadable thing.

"So you're still taking his side."

"God, can you hear yourself?"

With which the dam breaks and they're snarled into a full on, irrational, shouting match.

He storms out, eventually, because it's that or letting his temper really carry away with him to the point that he's striking out simply for a release and making certain there's no possible way of clawing things back again.

Ten minutes later he's snuggled back into his 'civvies' and made a home for himself in the pub he'd once named his local.

Of course he understands why Mycroft is being so…odd…right about now, understands that this is all tied into the undercurrent of scars that Sherrinford left behind and yet…

Dwelling on it right now's only serving to keep his blood boiling and so he fixes his attention onto the oversized TV screen, lets the simple mindlessness of watching others engaging in energetic sports, wash him into an almost comatose state.

Another ten minutes on and Sherlock's texting him with the statement of, **this would have been the appropriate point to 'sell' me out, Paterson. **

**One, that's not who I am, he should know that by now and two, HOW in the hell can you know about the fight already?**

**He has made an appointment to see me tomorrow about a case. If it were something he truly needed me for he would have asked to see me today…his normal source of more menial aid is inaccessible…you have quarrelled about just where your loyalties lie. **

A brief instant, barely enough time for him to get even really register the unintentional insult, then his phone is buzzing in first the statement of,

**You are, of course, invaluable in your own way, Paterson**, and then the enquiry of, **while on the subject do you still have 'friends' in the media industry, specifically someone who might be willing to forge a press pass or two? **

**I do, can I ask why?**

**You may, but I am not at liberty to discuss the matter. At least not yet. **

**Riiiight…give me an hour and I'll get back to you, ok?**

**Certainly…shall I put a good word in for you tomorrow?**

**God no, you'll only make it worse! **

X

T: The bit at the end is my nod to 'journalist John' in TGG, because there's no way in heck someone's just going to believe someone's a journalist on their word anymore and I just happen to have an ex-journalist kicking around who's offered Sherlock cart blanche as far as aid requests go. Indeed I think it was the whole 'ok so Sherlock's gotten hold of a press pass which he's then filtered on to John…' rationalisation of that whole scenario that prompted me to make my Guthrie a journalist rather than a novelist as my initial thought!


	3. Chapter 3

3. Catharsis

T: All warnings/disclaimers remain the same.

O

Things at home are all long, drawn, silences and an atmosphere that's never quite existed between them even when everything was new...uncertain...then the hospital calls with news that Sherlock's been in an explosion and suddenly everything else becomes insignificant.

He's awake by the time they get to the ward, all compressed, aimless, energy and dark, sharp mood.

"We're running in circles." He's clawing at his iv line as he makes the statement, as though offering evidence for why he shouldn't be trapped down by it and, blank though Mycroft's face remains, he can knows his husband is concerned by the stubbornness.

"There is a parallel, of course and yet I do not believe the situation identical. He has, after all, spun you in simply because he wishes entertainment rather than for the sake of a personal vendetta."

"Which means there's even more risk, because the moment I become a bore he shall simply dispose of me as he likely has countless others."

"Perhaps and yet that is not, I think, why you are so very agitated."

At that Sherlock finally stills and, sounding all together world weary, he states, "Would that that were not the case," before curling down into himself.

A long moment, then Mycroft steps from his side, from the room, without so much as an explanation,

"He thinks I'm holding back because of his presence...because I truly view him as my enemy."

"Yes, well, side stepping the larger issue IS there something you're holding back?"

"He took John, trust him up in the bomb that's put me here and I didn't know...didn't even register that anything was remotely wrong until John was there in front of me and then..."

"You thought he was there for the confrontation...thought you had once again had your trust betrayed?"

"Yes."

"But that's not what has you like this, is it? No this is because doubting him, even for a moment, has proven more unsettling for you than missing something, isn't it?"

"It is still so irrational...there's a kind, pretty, woman slowly taking any place I might have had in his heart...and yet..."

"Love isn't something you can rationalise, Sherlock."

"Did you get an update on his condition?" It's such an obvious dodge that he has only the smallest thought of applying a little pressure, of gaining some small verbal conformation that he's 'hit the nail on the head', before responding,

"Mm, apparently he's got a pretty nasty crack on his hip but otherwise he's in a nice, solid, condition given the circumstances."

A noise of what might be affirmation or, perhaps, confirmation, then Sherlock is turning over...is sending an affective 'go away now' message.

When next he sees Sherlock, he is lost to his grief.

Which means it's only once the other is standing at the foot of Mycroft's hospital bed that he registers the changes. Tiny, likely insignificant, things such as the easing of a few lines about his forehead and a shift in his posture and yet...

Sherlock smiles when he catches his eyes on him, the thing softer and somehow more 'human' than the usual twisting of his lips, "Well done, Patterson, I knew you'd catch on eventually," which is entirely typical of a Sherlock compliment, all doubled edged and slightly insulting, then he's enquiring, "Could I steal a moment do you think?"

It's vulnerable and not at all how he usually is, but he doesn't find himself surprised by it, finds himself simply responding,

"Of course, but try not to wear him out, ok?"

Mycroft grumps at this, of course, because he's taken the bizarre tack of viewing his kidnap and therefore the subsequent torture and hospitalisation, as little more than annoying inconvenience. A headset means he's trying to pretend himself utterly unaffected by the whole affair and thus more than a little prickly at any reminder, deliberate or otherwise, that that's not actually the truth of the matter.

He lingers a moment after Sherlock and he have exchanged places to insure that the younger man is heading his caution despite his brother's stubbornness and then, when their gentle conversation turns at last to more personal matters, he drifts out into the hall.

He goes to sit with John because somewhere along the line he's begun to think of the doctor as a friend, because given everything that's just happened it's really not all that fair to have him waking up alone and because now's as good a time as any to have that 'little chat' with the other.

O

T: In which we reach a somewhat stilted end to this one…honestly, I'm still not all that happy with the narrative flow here and I may yet come back somewhere along the line with an edit of some form, though I promise nothing as I think I've at last exhausted the well of inspiration that this verse gave me!


End file.
